For many generations, our family has delighted in telling stories. Sometimes they would be embellished a bit, but mostly they were told just as they had happened. The thing that gave these stories an eager audience around the campfire or kitchen table was that our (admittedly somewhat annoying) positive outlook emphasized the humor we encountered in our daily situations.
For example, Grandma Kay's first minibike ride at Uncle Bud's camp could have been told as a tragic tale, or a cautionary one of danger and doom, but instead, by laughing at herself, she turned it into a hilarious story. She would start by admitting that her well-known "Need for Speed" made her impatiently breeze through the operating and safety lessons they were trying to provide. She saw others riding around at top speed and she said her only question was- "where is the throttle so I can open this baby up and see what she can do?" She would explain how she popped the clutch while gunning the throttle, and her first ride dramatically began with a "wheelie" down the wooded trail. Grandma Kay's eyes would light up as she explained how difficult it was to steer between trees with the front wheel located over her head, hanging from the handlebars, trying to keep her balance, but still focused on accelerating wildly. Her much too short first ride ended in the ever-present and dangerous "picker bushes" found at the border of every wooded trail in the Tionesta area. She bemoaned the fact that she was "only just starting to move at a decent clip" when she fell off and landed on her posterior in the brambles. She wound the story up with her regrets that she couldn't try to ride again that day because Grandpa Joe had to pick all the thorns out of her backside first. This illustrates how outlook and attitude can make a story entertaining, even though the events were terrifying.
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| Karin's Senior picture, taken by SJP |
With that established, I would like to tell the story of my sister Karin's "Final Hurrah" camping trip. There will be danger and poor choices, but overall, it was very amusing to us. Not only had Karin grown up spending every weekend at our camp at Skinny Timber in Tionesta, she had willingly accompanied me on more primitive campouts with Joe and Barbara Harris, and their three children, Jason, Julie, and Leslie, in the primitive campsite in the area at Minister Creek. We had great adventures together and made many fond memories there. It is one of the smallest campgrounds, with only 6 sites. The amenities do not include showers, RV hookups, and streaming WiFi. Instead, there is a fire ring at each site, an old hand-pump well for water, and two outhouses.
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| The babbling brook of Minister Creek to lull you to sleep each night |
So when I asked Karin what she wanted to do on the last weekend before she departed her childhood and left home to become a competent woman at college, she said she wanted to go camping at Minister one last time. The Harris clan was uncharacteristically unable to go with us for some reason, so it was to be my sister and I alone.
Unfortunately for everyone involved in my life at that point, my Learning Disability and ADHD was undiagnosed and unmedicated. I was always intense and wildly fun- but the one thing I wasn't- was timely. Karin had packed her bag in 20 minutes and was eagerly ready for departure around 4 PM. I was running around frantically packing for 8 more hours. This was not uncommon, so Karin took a nap while I dashed around, loading up my silver Scout with every possible item that we might need for a long weekend, or for post-apocalyptic survival. My interpretation of the Boy Scout Motto of "Be Prepared" was to be prepared for ANYTHING. I was often a lifesaver, pulling out the most obscure item that was needed in the wilderness, or the ingredients for a camping meal worthy of a 5-star restaurant, or the equipment needed for an fun activity that would be envied by a Cruise Ship Director on the Lido Deck. Unfortunately, this meant that during packing I had to imagine ALL possible scenarios and plan for them. My mind would race full throttle, pulling mental wheelies, and to interrupt me by asking if I was almost ready only distracted and delayed me.
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| See? Not making this up |
So Karin and I finally left for Tionesta after midnight, maybe closer to 1 AM. We decided en route that perhaps we should stay at the cabin at Skinny Timber that first night so we didn't have to pitch camp in total darkness- although I did pack a lantern, several flashlights, and some Hawaiian Tiki Torches, if we wanted to do that. It was a blustery evening (well, technically morning) when we arrived. At the end of the quarter-mile driveway we saw the parking area was full of the vehicles of our aunts, uncles, and cousins. While our family always makes room for more, we were a bit doubtful that startling them awake in the pre-dawn hours would be polite. Karin and I discussed it and decided to drive the 40 minutes on Route 666 to Minister Creek campground. Again, this is not a story embellishment, that is the actual Route number and it is the Devil's Own Road- it meanders through the forest, with winding curves that double back on themselves repeatedly, with dangerous blind hills, and it is more of an asphalt patchwork quilt than a paved road.
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| One of the nicer stretches on Route 666 |
The silver Scout was a wonderful extended-hatchback 4-wheel-drive vehicle, and the V-8 engine is probably still able to run today, but the bodies of all Scouts began to rust out about 3 hours before they were assembled. So, on Route 666 in the darkest heart of the night, we hit a bump and the rusted latch on the hatchback gave way and all our camping equipment blew out the back. Karin and I laughed as we scavenged our gear off the road with flashlights, playing "I spy...a half case of peaches and the Mountain Pie Maker!" We only THOUGHT we got it all packed back in. I bungee-corded the hatch, because, of course, I was prepared for this, even though I had not mentally listed it as one of the possible outcomes.
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The sign in the daytime- but all of this happened in pitch darkness
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Imagine our surprise upon finally arriving to find that all six remote campsites at Minister were completely full. The campground rules allow tents to be pitched off-site, but it has to be beyond the designated sign quite a distance from the parking area. So Karin and I ended up carrying our tent, walking through the kind of darkness where you can't tell if your eyes are opened or closed.
The only tent we had was the last one our family had used while camping at Tionesta Dam. It was not the tan and orange one that slept 16, but it was the blue and yellow one that comfortably slept 8. Even though I am 6 foot tall, I could stand up in the morning inside it and stretch. It was canvas, which meant even on a sunny day, it smelled like you were sleeping in an old tennis shoe, and the most important rule was not to touch the sides while it was raining or the water would come through in that spot. The Harris children called it the Big Top, or the Circus Tent. It was not a modern tent with an internal frame of fiberglass shock-cord poles. It had an exo-skeleton of aluminum poles, and much like a circus tent, the entire structure had to be assembled and then the sides were raised up. Being canvas and large, it was also extremely heavy, so it took two people to carry it. Karin and I lugged it to a clearing and went back to the Scout for the poles and our sleeping bags. The rest of the equipment could wait until morning.
One of the features of the mountainous areas in Tionesta is the strange micro-climate weather patterns. Fog can hang in the valleys past noon even on a sunny day, and gusty winds can whip down the mountains with tree-snapping force. For Ohio flatlanders, a lightning strike throwing chunks of bark out as it spiraled around a tree was quite a sight. Remember I mentioned it was a bit blustery? Well, as Karin was toting the sleeping bags and I was carrying a very large bundle of aluminum poles over my shoulder, the lightning started. The nice thing was that it provided frequent blinding illumination to see by, but since only copper is a better conductor than aluminum, I felt a bit nervous as we heard the electrical crackle all around us. Under such duress, with a storm roiling above us, we couldn't find the clearing where we left the tent. Eventually I tripped over it- literally.
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| Duck and cover! |
Karin and I then began a race against the rain, to get the tent pitched. We were fortunately well-practiced at a choreographed routine to pitch this tent. For some strange reason, this was also not the first time we had arrived in the middle of the night. However, at this particular moment, we discovered the disheartening fact that one of the L-shaped roof poles had not been found after the earlier hatchback explosion. A sagging roof could wait until morning, but not if it was going to rain. It would be like a large canvas funnel, gathering all the rain from the entire surface area of the tent roof. It would be drier to sleep out in the storm.
So while Karin steadied the semi-assembled tent against blowing to Oz, I used my belt knife to cut a sapling and whittle a makeshift roof pole. At least it wasn't aluminum. Whether Karin is a person of great character, or a loving sister, or she was just immune to my constant lateness after 18 years, she, in any case, did not mention that none of this would be happening if we left a TINY bit earlier. Of course, being in a life-threatening situation which required cooperation to be able to seek shelter for survival may also make saying "I told you so" less desirable.
We got the tent secured and we were inside by the time the rains started. The makeshift pole held and we did not drown in our tent- well, not yet, anyway. It may have been dawn, but the storm raged with such driving wind and rain, that it was hard to tell. We were exhausted as the adrenaline rush faded. Even if this was the Apocalypse, I had the supplies for it in the Scout. We fell asleep quickly in spite of a hurricane.
Karin and I managed to sleep through Nature's fury for a couple of hours. We were awakened by a most unnatural sound for our location. It was the sound of a crowd and orders being barked out. My sister and I unzipped the Circus Tent and darted outside in alarm. What could this be? There were the six campsites through the woods and across the road from us. There were a few seasonal camps that were a decent hike away. The nearest town was miles from us. The one thing there should not be, was a crowd of people.
Amazingly, we had wandered around in the dark storm and pitched our Circus Tent in the middle of a Boy Scout Jamboree Campout in the woods. How we did not see even one tent while looking for the one we lost was astounding. Their pup tents had not held up to the weather as well as the Big Top. The scout's tents were mostly collapsed and all their contents were soaking wet. It was a late summer rain, so even in the wooded valley it was already a hot and humid morning. The soggy scouts were stripped down to underwear, or less, and hanging everything on lines to dry. My sister basically walked out of our tent and into a boy's locker room. The screaming and dashing about for wet clothes for belated modesty was rather amusing, but Karin excused herself back into our tent while they got decent.
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| Be Prepared! |
After exchanging pleasantries with the leaders of our unexpected neighbors, Karin and I broke down our tent and dragged the wet canvas and poles back to the silver Scout. We had still only slept a couple of hours, so when we saw that a less intrepid camper had abandoned one of the streamside spots due to the rain, we decided to pitch the Big Top one more time and maybe enjoy the rest of our weekend together as planned. The weather seemed to be clearing up. We passed out.
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| Squeaking Minister Creek hand pump |
We had taken the only spot available, but it had the huge misfortune to be the one nearest to the water well with the old-fashioned hand pump. A troop of our friends the Scouts were given water detail, and presumably back in uniform, they were now filling canteens and jugs outside our tent. Anyone who has been around testosterone-laden teen boys knows their natural state is one of rowdiness. There was arguing and jostling, wrestling and punching, stick fights and battle cries, as well as the moans of the wounded. The metal on metal squeal of the farm-style pump was the least noisy thing they were doing as they filled about a hundred canteens. Karin and I lay there in a stupor, too exhausted to go out and yell at them like some crabby senior citizens. We half-dreamed that their yelling might be the result of marauding bears picking them off one by one, but even though it sounded like they were being torn limb from limb, there was no silence for over an hour. We would later regret our uncharitable thoughts once the Scouts saved our lives.
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| Fill 'em up... x100 |
Sleep-deprivation had obviously made Karin and I delirious. We were not just asleep, we were passed out. We did not hear 5 families pack up and move out of the campsites. We did not pay attention to the well-known fact that we were in a low-lying camp spot just above where Minister emptied into the Tionesta Creek. We were too stupefied to observe the fact that it rained hard all night. All I knew when I woke up was that the boys were back outside our tent being loud, and that I was going to commit Scouticide.
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| Streamside camping at Minister |
When I tried to get up, the floor of the tent was squishy. Like an old-fashioned waterbed squishy. Actually making squishy sounds. I noticed ripples under the floor making Karin float up and down in her sleeping bag. The Scouts were shouting, "Flash Flood!" and were gathering around to save us. The water was not rising very fast, but it was steadily advancing. The Scouts helped us move the Big Top to high ground. We gave them a hero's commendation. After the crisis was over and the waters receded, we decided to re-absorb all our adrenaline and get some restful sleep. We had a nice time with good weather for the next couple days and it seemed our adventure was over.
We reluctantly packed up and I was driving leisurely, taking my sister home to her new grown-up adventures. We crested a blind hill and there was a lone deer standing in the middle of Route 666. I put both feet on the brake pedal and in spite of the squealing tires, the deer remained frozen in place. Karin screamed as both of us locked eyes with this deer and the silver Scout skidded into her. Fortunately, we weren't going very fast, as evidenced by the fact that there was no damage to the Scout at all. However, the impact had knocked the big doe directly down on her side. She was just lying there in the road. (Just so no one has anxiety about this turn in the story, remember it is filled with danger, but it is funny- not tragic.)
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| LOOK OUT! |
Karin and I got out and walked over to the deer, horrified. The doe lay there dazed, legs stiff, muscles quivering and shaking. I moved the Scout back to the top of the hill with the flashers on, just in case there would be any traffic out there. The danger part was that this was before the TV show "When Wild Animals Attack," so we had no idea this gentle victim was capable of doing bodily harm to humans. My own Boy Scout training kicked in- Always Be Prepared. Render First Aid. Help A Lady Cross The Street.
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| Of course I had this- and a back up kit as well... |
We decided she was in shock. I got the wool blanket from the Scout and we covered her torso. I rolled her up off the pavement expecting to see a bloody mess, but even her fur was intact. I tucked the blanket under her. Karin petted her neck and spoke reassuringly to her, and then put the doe's head in her lap. The deer stopped trembling. Basically we had skidded to a stop almost in time, but just knocked her off her feet. I carefully tested range of motion in all four legs. She let me move her limbs with no resistance or panic. He rear thigh muscle at the impact point was tensed, but moved freely and did not grind or cause the deer any apparent pain. I began massaging the muscle, moving the blood towards the heart and avoiding pressure on the points of insertion. I increased the pressure to the thicker tissue, feeling it loosen as I rubbed. Slowly she recovered and sat up as if she was crouched on the forest floor, resting. We adjusted the blanket over her and I kept working to loosen the leg muscle.
Very slowly the deer got to her feet. She was able to bear weight on her leg, but she walked with a limp. She moved off the road and into the woods, limping a little less with each step. She still had the army surplus blanket on her, looking a bit like a horse with a blanket on, but as she moved off into the woods she looked like a parade float gliding along. Karin and I didn't want to remove the blanket and startle her, so she slowly walked off, with only a slight limp. We joked about the story she could tell her deer friends, and that maybe she would keep the khaki blanket on for hunting season as a way to camouflage herself.
Karin and I had no idea how dangerous our encounter with the deer was at the time. It was also before there was any concern about deer ticks and Lyme Disease. Protected by cluelessness and good intentions we wrapped up the adventure that was Karin's Final Hurrah camping trip.
